By The Light Of A Dying Flame ~ Drarry Fanfic

Chapter 10: Harry

Harry spent the rest of the night pacing back and forth from the sofa to the window, peering through a tiny exposed portion of the glass. He was convinced each sound he heard was Death Eaters appearing on the doorstep, each flash of headlights from a passing car a curse hurtling towards him. Fear scraped across his nerves like fire, and any exhaustion he might have felt had evaporated the moment those Death Eaters had surrounded him and Malfoy in the road.

He had seen Malfoy's face when Travers had threatened him—not an expression of betrayal, or the sharp, haughty anger that he had come to expect from Malfoy. He had, more than anything, looked genuinely terrified, and Harry had reacted on instinct, pulling him from danger like it was second nature.

Although the night crept around Harry at a painfully slow pace, warm light eventually slipped through the gap in the curtains, heralding the break of dawn. He finally managed to breathe, the rest of his senses flooding back into his body, washing away the adrenaline until his limbs felt as if they'd been shot through with concrete. He dragged himself from the couch and into the adjoining kitchen. The fridge was mostly empty, but he managed to scrounge up a box of stale cereal from a cabinet that he ate directly from the bag by the handful as he meandered about the rest of the house. The downstairs layout reminded him uncomfortably of the house on Privet Drive, and he half-expected to find the same cupboard under the stairs from his childhood, but the wall held only portraits of the Muggle family; their eyes seemed to trail him as he passed.

He made his way upstairs, footsteps quiet against the carpet, the only noise his own crunching of the cereal. The first door he opened led to a small bedroom, and he could make out Malfoy's silhouette in the dim light from behind the blinds. He was lying on top of the covers, still in his trousers and boots, his face turned against the pillow. Harry backed quietly from the room and shut the door, stomach twinging as if he'd caught Malfoy in a private moment.

The next bedroom had a small bookshelf beside the bed. Harry grabbed a book at random and shuffled back downstairs, the cereal box still shoved under his arm. Returning to his spot on the couch, he opened the novel, eyes skipping over the words on the page. He needed anything to pass the time, to distract him from his current circumstances. Sleep was not an option, not with Malfoy passed out upstairs and panic still beating faintly in time with his pulse, like echoes in an empty chamber. If only Hermione could see him now, turning to a book for comfort—although that was, of course, the problem.

Eventually, he heard footsteps on the stairs, and Malfoy appeared in the doorway, his movements dragging, as if he were underwater. He looked the worst Harry had ever seen him: bruised shadows beneath his gray eyes, blonde hair matted from days without washing, ribs and collarbone protruding sharply from beneath ashen skin. He spotted Harry on the sofa and raised his pale eyebrows. "Have you been sat there all night?"

"More or less," Harry said, shutting the book and tossing it onto the side table.

Malfoy picked up the cereal box Harry had abandoned and glanced inside, his mouth twisting. "Couldn't have left any for me?"

"There's more in the kitchen," Harry replied, stifling his eye roll. Even at death's door, Malfoy was insufferably entitled.

Malfoy shuffled into the kitchen, his head disappearing behind the fridge door. He emerged with a carton of eggs in one long-fingered hand.

Harry grimaced. "The expiration on those is well past."

Malfoy ignored him, rummaging through the cabinets for a pan. He plopped it onto the stove, then took a step back, staring down at it with an inscrutable expression.

Harry pushed himself off the couch and walked into the kitchen, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest as he regarded Malfoy. "Something wrong?"

"How the hell does this thing work?" Malfoy asked, gesturing feebly at the stove.

Biting back a laugh, Harry leaned forward and twisted the knob for the burner. A bright flame flickered to life beneath the pan. Harry grabbed the egg carton, cracking a few and tossing the shells into the sink before sweeping his arm in front of the stove.

Malfoy eyed the eggs warily, leaning over the pan to inspect them as if they might hop up and try to run away. As they sizzled, he glanced sideways at Harry. "Thanks," he said tersely.

Harry's eyebrows rose, but he stifled his retort; he was too tired to verbally spar with Malfoy right now. Something about his gratitude, however half-hearted, sent a bolt of disquiet through Harry's chest. "I think I'll take a shower," he said, backing out of the kitchen. "Try not to burn the place to the ground."

Malfoy turned to face him, glancing down at his bare torso. "You're not going to tie me up?"

"Unless you plan on attacking me in the shower."

A wash of pink rose to Malfoy's cheeks, and he turned back to the stove, his shoulders stiff. "Not like I have anywhere to go," he mumbled.

Harry winced, the sympathy quick and uncontrollable. He left the kitchen, knowing there was nothing to say—because Malfoy was right.

He made his way upstairs, back into the bedroom with the bookshelf. Rummaging through the drawers of the dresser, he pulled out a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that looked more or less like they would fit him. In the bathroom, he stripped off his grimy clothes, stiff with dried blood, sweat, and dirt, before tossing them in the bin.

In the mirror, Harry barely recognized his own reflection; he looked nearly as bad as Malfoy. His hair fell into his eyes and curled around his ears; his ribs jutted out beneath his dark skin. Purple grooves were painted beneath his eyes, and shadows pooled below his collarbones. He twisted away from his reflection savagely, slipping into the shower before the water had a chance to warm up. He shivered, watching with morbid fascination as the blood and grime swirled around the drain. He didn't think he'd bathed properly since they'd stayed at Grimmauld Place, and he let his eyes fall shut at the sensation of heat, of cleanliness.

Only once the water turned icy did he drag himself from the shower, stepping onto the green rug and wrapping himself in a matching towel. The mirror had completely fogged over, so he could only see an outline of himself and didn't have to look at his own disrepair. When he dressed, the jeans were a bit short on him, the t-shirt hanging loosely on his frame, but at least they were clean.

Back downstairs, he found Malfoy thumbing through the book Harry had tossed aside earlier, the pan empty in front of him on the counter. "Didn't bother to use a plate?" Harry asked.

Malfoy didn't look up from the book as he replied mildly, "If you're going to act like an uncivilized prat, I may as well be one, too." When he finally did raise his gaze, he was frowning, his expressive mouth curled into a scowl. "This Muggle literature is awful," he complained, holding the book out between them. "It's just a bunch of insufferable people going back and forth to each other's houses."

Harry rolled his eyes. "It's not Jane Austen's fault that the nuances of eighteenth century marriage politics are too complicated for you," he said in a voice eerily like Hermione's.

"I don't even know what that means," Malfoy said, his brow scrunching. Something in Harry's stomach twisted at the expression—it was so normal, so human, as if he were Ron confused by one of Hermione's long-winded rants about Arithmancy. Malfoy continued to flip through the novel before tossing it onto the counter with a grunt of disgust. His eyes flicked up and down Harry across the kitchen. "You look like a Muggle."

Harry tugged on the t-shirt. "These are Muggle clothes," he said flatly. "Would you prefer I'd kept on my bloody jumper?"

Malfoy glanced down at his own appearance: bare chest, ragged bandages stained with blood, and trousers that may have once been light gray but were now a dusty reddish-brown. "Yes, well," he said, pushing himself off the counter, "I suppose I should also clean myself up."

"Do whatever you want," Harry said as he shuffled back to the living room. White light sliced through the crack in the curtain, dust motes suspended in the brightness.

"Whatever I want?" Malfoy said behind him.

"Short of stabbing me with one of the kitchen knives and making a run for it with your wand." A huff of air was Malfoy's only response before he went upstairs, leaving Harry alone in the sliver of late morning sunlight to resume his careful watch at the window.